


Toska

by objectiveheartmuscle



Category: Vampire Academy & Related Fandoms, Vampire Academy Series - Richelle Mead
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Everyone's an Idiot, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Pre-Canon, borderline platonic polyamory, you're gonna cry but you're gonna be happy about it maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectiveheartmuscle/pseuds/objectiveheartmuscle
Summary: It's not that he doesn't love her — he does — it's just that people like them have learned not to expect the world to give them happiness without asking for something in return.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> About a year ago, lorcleis, gigi256, sagemb (my wonderful, glorious, beautiful beta), and myself were hunkered down in a group chat on Skype tossing around fic ideas, and at one point, I said, "Have I shared my headcanon that Randall isn't Viktoria's father," to which sagemb replied, "I just had the most awful thought," and because the rest of us were dumb enough to ask her to share, she then said, "[what if] Abe is Vika's father," so here we are, thirteen months later. 
> 
> Shoutout to my beta for prompting this, editing it, and then crying over it with me.
> 
> This might make you cry, too.

тоска (tós•ka) - _No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom._ — Vladimir Nabokov

* * *

**AUGUST 1990**

The house sits halfway down the road, light spilling out from the living room windows, like a ship in the night on the horizon. He's been doing this for several years now, coming to the _ved'ma_ for her insights, but even now, his breath catches in his chest. He can't quite place his finger on why.

"'At it?" a voice comes from just behind him, disbelief coming through her Scottish accent, and not for the first time in the last week does Abe do his best to suppress an eye roll.

"Hathaway, have you ever heard of the idea that guardians should be seen, not heard?" he asks lightly, slowing as they approach the house. He smirks at how her mouth tightens in response and then glances between her and his other guardian, Igor. "I'll only be a little bit. You two can…stay here or something. Make yourselves busy."

"Sir, I must—"

"I'm about to walk into a house of five dhampirs, one of whom is a former guardian and another on his way to becoming a novice one day," Abe replies, his tone now veering into pleasant territory, "Forgive the assumption, but I believe I'll be fine."

"The last Strigoi attack in the area was months ago," Igor offers.

Abe nods his head. "Bear Cub here has the right idea." His eyes flick over her uneasy stance and argumentative posture. "He's been doing this longer than you have, Janine. I advise following his lead."

When she doesn't follow him, a little part of him feels victorious. It's short-lived, however, because the lumbering mess that stumbles out of the Belikov house, door banging behind him, immediately fouls his mood.

"Randall," Abe greets with a clipped voice, meeting him halfway between the house and the street.

"'S'you," Randall slurs. He sticks his hands in his jeans pockets after a couple attempts, and Abe takes in just how intoxicated the other man is. His eyes are bloodshot and he wavers in a circle where he's standing. "…Oh."

Randall's tall even by Moroi standards, and the few inches he carries over Abe suddenly seem that much larger. Nerves grip Abe tight, but he draws his shoulders up and refuses to let Randall intimidate him into backing down. Tiny five-foot guardians depending on him for employment are one thing; a royal Moroi with some pull in the current reigning family is another.

"Were you going somewhere with that thought?" Abe challenges, pushing as much bravado into his words as he can. He hates talking to Randall Ivashkov. He's not an English native speaker like Randall, and it always makes him feel like he's two steps behind in the conversation.

Randall sizes Abe up, running a hand through his hair. After a few moments, he seems to decide against something and says with a knowing look, "She's…'side." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder and passes Abe, knocking shoulders with him on the way. A few steps later, he turns around with a lecherous smile. "I wouldn't waste my time if I were you. She's not feeling like giving any tonight."

"I'm here to discuss business with Yeva," Abe replies quickly, releasing a mental breath that none of his words came out shaking at the mention of Olena. It's a standard excuse that's appeased the residents of Baia enough that they don't bother him much anymore.

Randall shrugs. "Like I said." He starts ambling away, a drunk stumble punctuating his steps. "Temno's probably got better options tonight."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"'Thanks, but no thanks'?" Randall repeats, genuine confusion on his face.

Abe grins. "Unlike you, Lord Ivashkov," he calls out slowly, "I don't need to come to _Siberia_ to have sex!"

Waving a hand dismissively, Randall disappears into the dark, and Abe watches him go, wondering what Olena ever saw in the guy.

Inside the house, Yeva and the kids are glued to the television, a news anchor prattling on about the vote to shut down Chernobyl, and Olena hovers in the doorway, a bulky dish towel pressed to her neck. When Abe catches her gaze, her familiar half-smile creeps out across her face.

" _Kukhnya_ ," she murmurs, gesturing to the kitchen with her head. " _Mama zanyata_."

He follows her across the hall, fingers brushing her shoulder. "Did he—?"

Olena doesn't answer; instead, she turns to the ancient _samovar_ sitting on the table and busies herself with making tea, one-handed.

"I saw him," Abe continues gently, surprised to find himself needing a reaction from her.

"I only have the brooms," she says, a silent _later_ in her tone as she pulls out a tin from the cupboard.

"That's fine," he replies. He'd never let his mother hear that to him, tea was tea.

She finishes. The _samovar_ starts whistling impatiently. She gives it a soft shake. It stops whistling.

"You Turkish," she says after a minute, "You drink a lot of this, _pravda_?"

He nods and lets her make his glass. " _Spasibo_." She's still working one-handed. "And yes, we do. I may not be the best measure of how much, though. I can drink up to a liter an hour when I'm stressed."

She smiles behind her own glass. "I bet all the shopkeepers in…"

"Ankara."

"In Ankara knew your name," she says.

"Many do, yes."

In the dim light of the kitchen, he sees a lock of hair escaping the pins she uses to hold it back, and he's overcome with the strangest urge to tuck it behind her ear.

They drink in silence as the news program floats in from the living room. When she finishes, she sets her glass down, shifts the towel against her neck, and asks, "Outside?" She gives him an amiable smile and he wants to tell her that he's the only one in the room, that she doesn't have to put on her act just for him.

Instead, he returns the smile and agrees. "Sounds lovely."

On their way out, she pauses by the living room. "Mama," she calls softly, barely discernible over the television.

Yeva turns her attention to the pair of them. On the floor, the older girl, Karolina, is reading to the younger one, Sonya, and on the couch, sitting stock still, is Olena's son, Dimitri. If Abe had to guess, he'd say that the boy was listening to them and trying not to show it.

Abe can also guess that Olena picks up on her son's behavior, because instead of saying anything to her mother, she simply nods her head to the back door and then glances at Abe. Yeva's only response is a slight inclination of her head before turning back to the television.

In the backyard, Olena sits against the house, tucking the fabric of her dress underneath her legs, and smiles that half-smile when Abe joins her on the ground. The ice in her dish towel clank as she shifts it again.

"You are by yourself this time," Olena notes.

"They're patrolling the street."

"'They'?"

"My father put in for a second guardian for me."

"And you received one." She says it like she's unsurprised.

"It's getting harder for non-royals to get two guardians," he says. "I was the only one with this cohort. Some didn't even get their first."

She nods, processing his words. "And how is he, your second guardian?"

"She," he corrects, laughing at her momentary surprise, "Is something else."

"How so?"

"She missed the lesson on how much a guardian is supposed to speak."

Olena rolls her eyes. "And how much of this is you encouraging her?"

"How dare you suggest such an action." He mocks outrage with a hand to his heart and everything. "I hate sarcasm and I particularly despise when people speak their mind. Drives me mad, I tell you."

"You're fond of her," Olena notes, her head tilted in wonder.

Abe scoffs. "I can hardly be fond of someone I met a week ago."

She simply hums. "What's her name?"

"Janine Hathaway," he says, smiling a bit as Olena tries to repeat the name for herself. It comes out sounding like _Katavai_.

"This name, it is British, yes?"

"Scottish." He flinches at his memory from the train the other day. "I've been informed that there is a difference."

Olena half-smiles again. "You are definitely fond of her. I can see it."

He avoids that and lets his eyes drop to the dish towel. "How bad is it?"

Slowly, she pulls the makeshift ice pack off her neck, baring her bruised, bloodied neck for him to see. It looks horrific. He can't even imagine how much it must hurt.

"Oh, Alonya," he whispers, his hand finding hers in the grass between them. "You need to stop allowing him to visit."

She shakes her head, eyes watering. "A father can see his children."

"I don't think any of them want to see their mother like this as a result." Abe's lips thin and his fingers grip hers tightly. "You don't have to put yourself through this. Your mother turned out just fine without your father around."

Olena looks away, moonlight making the dried blood on her throat shine.

"Tell me you at least gave him permission to do this."

"Sometimes he gets so…" Her shoulders sag as she gives up her second struggle of the night, and by the time he tucks her head under his chin, she's crying.

And he lets her, because he knows she doesn't get to do this often — not when there are small children to be strong for and a mother to stubbornly prove wrong. He wraps his arms around and links his fingers together and doesn't mind that she's staining his button-down, not if it means she finally lets out what she keeps bottled up so tightly.

She surfaces for air after some time. Angrily scrubbing her hands across her face, she sits up, tucking her knees in close to her body. "It was not this bad before Sonya. I do not…" She sniffs, loud and wet and long and then still has to wipe her hand under her nose. "He was never physical before Sonya."

"But the last three years…"

She shrugs, ripping a blade of grass out of the ground. "He can be so charming and sweet, but when we are alone…I see Kalya shy away him from these days. I think he sees it, too. He now brings presents for them. Sonya and Dimka, they are too young to understand, I think, but Kalya…she picks up on things, I have noticed. He brought her a doll the last time he visited. I found it in the freezer the next day."

He stays silent, watching her rip out blade after blade of grass as she speaks.

"I knew it was too good to be true when I met him. An American, taking a notice in me? Some plain, average Soviet girl who never did anything remarkable? Surely it was some mistake, I think, but here we are, ten years later, and I…" She lets go of the grass in her hand, skin reddening from where she'd gripped tight, and watches the blades fall to the ground.

"I think you're far from average," Abe whispers, not thinking.

Her head shoots up, face blank. It's the expression she makes when she's not sure of something but is willing to be open to the idea of it.

And then, figuring he might as well continue on this train he kicked away from the station, he adds, "I think you're gorgeous."

She shoots up from the ground, pacing away to the end of the yard, and he's ready to get up and follow her or go inside and seek out Yeva, anything to mend this line he's just crossed, until she flips around and stares at him hard.

"Do you mean your words?" she asks.

He nods, slowly, heart pounding in his chest.

She crosses back over to him, dropping next to him on her knees. "If I ask you to kiss me, would you?"

Shock freezes him. "Wh-what?"

"If I ask you to kiss me," she repeats languidly, a playful smile on her face, "Will you say yes or no?"

Her directness isn't unusual to him — his homeland is among the more impatient ones — but it's the softness with which she delivers her bluntness that gets him. Her warm, brown eyes are sparkling with an idea, and where it curls forward, her hair is almost close enough to graze his face.

The rational side of him wants to say no, that as much as they may hate him, she still technically is with Randall. But it's the look in her eyes, like he can fix all her problems, that gets him.

"I would say…yes," he says, feeling like he's jumping off a cliff.

Lips twisting into a smirk, she jumps back up and holds out a hand to him. "Mama should be ready for you now. _Davai_ ," she adds when he doesn't move immediately, too blindsided by the exchange that just happened to comprehend what she's saying now.

He follows her into the house, wondering what on Earth just happened.

* * *

Her country rapidly falls apart after that night.

His father decides it's time for him to take on more responsibilities within the family business.

He learns that Janine Hathaway's auburn curls looks magnificent in sunlight and ethereal in moonlight and absolutely, achingly divine wrapped around his fingers.

There are nights he wonders about his almost-kiss with Olena Belikova before rolling over into Janine's arms, pushing the memory out of his thoughts.

* * *

**AUGUST 1991**

A year passes before he returns to Baia.

"This is your longest absence," Yeva observes as he enters the house sheepishly, Igor tagging along behind him.

"And your head of state has been kidnapped by his own police," Abe tosses back, following Yeva into the kitchen.

"Times are tough, yes, I know. Such is to be Russian." Yeva gives him a hard look before pointing to the table. "Sit."

"I thought you were Soviet," he calls out when she disappears across the hall to fetch her cards.

"My parents, they were Mensheviks, and their parents before them, too." Yeva shakes her head when she returns, taking the chair opposite Abe. "Besides, nobody knows anything anymore. Boris Nikolaevich _Yeltsin_ was elected." She laughs a single, hollow laugh as she shuffles. "Nothing makes sense these days. Cut."

They fall silent as she works the deck. Halfway through dealing his spread, he hears someone slide in behind him. To his surprise, Olena takes the seat next to him, her hair longer than last year. She flashes him a quick smile before focusing on her mother's work.

Yeva's eyes flick to her daughter for half a beat, and she hums and taps the Ace of Wands. "I see a lot of your normal cards — hard work, hidden suffering, you know — but this." She's still tapping the Ace of Wands. "There is a new beginning in your life, but you are unsure of it."

"Why?" Olena asks, breaking Yeva's one rule during readings: Silence, or else.

True to form, Yeva shoots her daughter a displeased look, but answers the question nonetheless. "It deviates from his normal path. I would guess it was unplanned, this beginning, and thus you do not know how to proceed."

Olena makes a dissatisfied noise, but it's lost on Abe, who's staring hard at the card. He looks up to Yeva. "Do they say anything about the future of this new beginning?"

Yeva glances over the spread. "Unclear. There is quite a bit more lack of direction this time. It appears as though you are at a kind of crossroads, but…"

"But?" Olena prods, reaching for Abe's knee. The touch both soothes and distracts him.

Again, Yeva glares at Olena. "This is a new problem." She redirects to Abe. "Time has not been your friend on this."

He's sitting perhaps the stillest he's ever sat in his life. Next to him, he can feel Olena's gaze on his face, trying and failing to hide that she's trying to look for his reaction.

Yeva, to her credit, seems to sense that this reading has shaken him like no other before it. "I will take a ten percent discount today," she says quietly, redrawing the cards back into the deck. Blindly, he fishes the money out of his pocket and slides it across the table to Yeva before standing.

"You," he says, barely controlling his voice and pointing to Igor. "Stay here. Olena?"

She nods and stands, slipping between the chairs and the wall to stand beside him.

"I need air," he says, and then leaves for the front door, not waiting for her to follow him.

"Ibrahim!" she calls out when he reaches the street, and she sprints across the short yard to catch up to him. Her hair pins hold her hair back at her temples, like they've always done since the day he met her, and she absent-mindedly tucks a stray lock behind her ear when she catches up to him. " _Kak tiy?_ What is going on?"

The words bunch up on his tongue, eager to burst out, but for some reason, he can't say them. He finds himself fearing her reaction. " _Nichevo_ ," he replies, resuming walking. "It was just too warm to stay inside."

"Don't—" She runs up to him again, grabbing his wrist and making him stop in place. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not."

"I can tell when you are." Her face is stony. She's upset with him. That breaks his heart a little bit more. The last thing he wants is to make her unhappy, not when Randall does that enough for her to last a lifetime.

"It's—" And again, the words crowd against his teeth. A flash of freckles flits through his mind and it's enough to give him the courage to say, "Janine is pregnant."

"Oh." Her whole body wilts and she lets go of his wrist. Almost on instinct, she takes a step back. "Would this not be a good thing?"

"She doesn't…" His hands ball up into fists as he remembers their conversation a week ago, the one in which she broke his heart and didn't blink an eye in the process. Janine Hathaway, always so methodical and practical. No room for emotion. Ever. Talking to Olena is like a tidal wave of everything he's been burying in that time. "What I do is too dangerous, according to her."

"Your business that nobody knows nothing about." Leave it to Olena to look for humor where there was none.

"Olena."

" _Izvinite_." She pauses, taking him in. "This is not what you want."

"I love her."

"Does she love you?"

"I don't know."

Olena's mouth twists with displeasure. "If she loved you, she would do this a different way."

 _That's what I keep thinking,_ he thinks to himself. Aloud, he says, "Maybe."

"So you came to find out what to do next."

"Maybe," he repeats.

She tilts her head. "Why else did you come?"

She's so earnest in the way she's looking at him and it comes tumbling forward before he can stop himself. "Because when I'm with you, I can make sense of the world."

"What a lovely sentiment."

"I mean it." He's on the verge of tears, which rocks him further. He can't remember the last time he cried, and he'll be damned if he lets a woman get the better of him. "I get by alright when I'm out there, but here—" He closes the distance between them, cups her face. "Here is the only place that makes sense."

Biting her lip, her eyes dart around his face. "I want to kiss you."

His life is unravelling. "Then do it."

She shakes her head. "Not when you are like this."

He tears himself away with a groan.

"I have known you for five years, Ibrahim," she says, much more calmly than he feels, "And I have considered you a friend for four of these years. I can give you support, but you have been put in a position that I cannot help you out of. Do not blame me for this."

He turns to face her. Shoulders square and chin jutting out, she looks like she's been practicing this in the mirror.

"Not that it matters," he replies brusquely. "Not when you're still with him."

Her eyes turn stormy. "Leave Randall out of this."

"Why? So you can go running back to him the minute he surfaces again?" He's fuming now, all of his pent-up anger at Janine unfortunately releasing itself on someone who shouldn't have to bear any of it. "He treats you like a ragdoll but you're too blinded by your devotion to him to see what he does to you."

Her hand skates across her neck. "You know nothing about our relationship."

"I know he hasn't made you happy in years."

"You fell in love with her."

"You're too in love with him to notice anyone else."

She leans up into his space, taking up his entire viewframe. " _Otvali_ ," she hisses, and the swear stuns him into silence. She pushes past him, stalking back to the house in long strides, and he watches her go, wondering if he'll ever see her again.

* * *

In December, her country is little more than dust underfoot, and he watches the news report of the Kremlin raising the tricolors with a vice clenched around his heart.

In April, he gets a letter in the mail. _Her name is Rosemarie._ A wallet-sized photo of a tiny newborn drops out of the envelope, and he clutches it to his chest for an hour straight.

In August, Yeva sends him a telegram. I HAD A DREAM. STOP. DAVAI. STOP.

* * *

**AUGUST 1992**

Olena opens the door for him after he knocks. She looks momentarily surprised, but she folds it under a blank expression almost immediately.

"Mama!" she yells back into the house, not taking her eyes off him. "Ibrahim is here!"

Yeva comes up behind her daughter and shoos her away. "You," she says, jabbing a finger at Abe, "Come with me."

He nods and quickly follows her down the hall, the sounds of small children laughing reaching him as they breeze by the living room. She leads him to her room next to the back door and takes a seat on her bed.

"You said you had a dream," Abe prompts, closing the door behind him.

She nods. " _Da,_ I did."

"About…?"

"You."

He waits a few moments before asking, "Is that it?"

Squinting at him, she says, "You are not to hurt my daughter, you understand?"

" _What?_ " he asks, blindsided.

"That poor excuse of a man has already damaged her too much. Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do about that now. But you," she says, fixing him with a look that could wither flowers, "It is not too late for you."

"I'm utterly lost," he admits, his heart in his throat.

"I have only let you come back as much as I have because you are the only person she trusts. He has taken her friends from her and he has tried his best to turn her against me, but you are untouchable to him. She needs that. She needs someone to fight back for her."

His mouth gapes as he tries to keep up with what Yeva is saying.

"But if you do anything to hurt her, I will personally see that your kneecaps hang from my rafters. Are we clear?"

It suddenly hits him why everyone in Baia is terrified of Yeva Belikova, and it takes all he has not to shy away from her. " _Ya ponimayu_ ," he says. "I understand."

" _Khorosho_. Now get out of my bedroom."

He nearly runs out, flinging the door open in the process, and collides with Olena in the process.

"You look like you have seen a Strigoi," Olena teases, a smile on her lips.

"In all fairness," he replies, "Your mother is terrifying."

Olena shakes her head. "Only if you let her be. What, did she have a dream about you?"

"Yes."

"Funny," she says, though her tone is devoid of any amusement. "She said the same thing to me the other morning."

"I would assume she has lots of dreams, unless she hangs upside down from the ceiling every other night."

Letting out a small peal of laughter, Olena throws her head back. "Says the vampire," she says, making her way down the hall towards the kitchen. "Stay for dinner? I want to talk later."

All he can do is nod in response.

——

When later rolls around, he finds them sitting in front of the fireplace, their backs to the couch, her head on his shoulder as she fingers the edge of her glass of tea.

It's her that eventually breaks the silence. "I am sorry for last year."

"What—Oh. That."

"Yes, that."

"You…" He sets down his tea glass to the side and rubs the back of his neck. "You don't have to apologize. I lashed out at you."

"I told Randall I don't need him to visit so much anymore."

"How did he take that news?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Sonya is beginning school with the other two this autumn. He seemed to take it well enough."

"From what I know of him, that's…surprising."

"I suspect I am not the only woman in his life these days." Her accent thickens over her words and he can feel her shift, like the idea makes her uncomfortable. "He only comes because of the children these days anyway. The last few times he was here…well, it was not me he came for."

"As long as that means he isn't hurting you anymore."

She laughs. The sound is humorless. "He has always taken what he wants, when he wants it. I am sure he will be back. It is always me he comes back to."

"What do you mean?" Abe asks softly.

"This is not the first time his attention has strayed." She sighs. "I am used to it, however. It is what happens for girls like me in Baia."

"You deserve so much better, Alonya."

She picks her head up and stares at him, shadows dancing along the edges of her half-smile. "You should have been the mysterious foreigner I met in a dance club eleven years ago."

"I would have treated you like the goddess you are," he says seriously.

She pressed a finger to his mouth, shaking her head. "Stop, or I will kiss you."

He raises an eyebrow. She drops her hand and he catches it halfway to the floor, linking his fingers between hers. "Compliments make you uncomfortable," he says.

"I hear them only rarely," she admits, her eyes searching his.

"That's a tragedy."

"Such is my life."

He simply meets her gaze and then slowly starts to lean in towards her. "Is this a tragedy?" he asks when he gets close, his lips brushing against hers.

"Not at all," she whispers back, closing the last bit of distance with an enthusiasm that almost knocks him over.

* * *

**MAY 2010**

He slips in through the backyard, hoping to draw as little attention as possible. A couple people give him wary looks and he merely glances back, aiming for just above their brow ridge so that they're unsure if he's looking at them or not. A person on edge doesn't ask questions.

"I didn't think you would show," a voice says next to him after he nabs a half-finished bottle of vodka off one of the card tables scattered around. Olena, tipsy and sad, gives him a rueful smile.

"My almost-son-in-law went and got himself killed." He raises the bottle. "To decisions in love that could've been better made."

Olena hums, her eyes drifting towards the pair of teenage girls sitting in front of the bonfire. "I never saw a photo of her," she says, nodding towards Rose. "But I knew who she was the moment I walked in the room."

"Strong genetics," Abe muses, taking a long swig of vodka.

"Not so much in the other one." Olena steals the bottle from him. "I think Karolina sees the resemblance. She mentioned it after dinner the other night." She takes a swig. "The longer Rose is here, the more I see Vika in her."

"I would imagine your mother knows."

Olena rolls her eyes and takes a another drink, this one long enough to worry Abe. "Can't hide anything from her."

"Is she taking Rose to see your brother tomorrow?"

"I think so. She has a bond with a friend of hers back in the States. Dim—" She pauses, fingers clenching around the neck of the bottle. "Dimitri mentioned it once."

Across the yard, Viktoria pours Rose another far-too-large cup of vodka and Rose doesn't seem to notice. "Come here," he says, brushing his fingers against her wrist and angling his head towards the house.

Inside, in the room she shares with her mother, she sets the bottle down on the dresser and collapses into his arms, shaking with sobs, and like he did twenty years prior, he lets her cry it out.

"My son," she chants into his shirt, over and over, "My son, my only son, my son…"

"You gained a daughter," he whispers into her hair, his arms tight around her shoulders. She's gripping his suit jacket like he might fly away. "And you gave Rose a sister."

"I wish I could have them all."

"I know, Alonya, I know." He kisses the top of her head. "Believe me, if I could bring him back, I would. Anything for you."

She pulls back enough to look at him. "Everything is so unfair. Not that life can be perfectly happy, but…"

"You've had your share of bullshit," he finishes, wiping away an errant tear with his thumb. "I know. It seems every moment we have, one of us is crying."

She laughs at that, like she's forcing herself to appreciate the humor. "One day, it won't be like this. One day, we'll be happy and free."

He says nothing in response, instead pulling her close and swaying them gently back and forth as she works on putting her façade of strength back on for the millionth time in her life.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH. Sorry about that unintended hiatus. Seasonal depression & having your love life run amok at the same time isn't a walk in the park for anybody. As it stands, I had appendicitis last week and my career path is getting a little shaken up at the moment, but I wrote this! So here you go! (I recommend rereading or at least skimming the first installment since it's been a year. Sorry about that, too.)
> 
> For those of you wondering: an update to Call My Name is coming. It just needs a lot more work than this needed.

**SEPTEMBER 1987**

"Ibba," a voice says.

He looks up to see his father slide the compartment door shut, the soft click of the latch breaking through the white noise of the train passing over tracks under their seats. Sitting up, he sets his book aside and takes the paper cup of tea his father is holding out to him.

His father takes the opposite seat with a sip of his own tea. "A week ago, I asked you to research our location."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me what you have learned."

 _This is preparation for your future,_  his father had said when assigning him the task.  _Nobody will tell you what you need to know. You must be able to find out this information for yourself. Consider this practice._

"Not many people are willing to talk about Baia," Abe says, sipping his tea as an excuse to close his eyes in weariness. He's pretty sure he talked to every Moroi and dhampir in Turkey over the last week. "A dhampir subculture exists."

His father's nose wrinkles inside his cup.

"It's a mid-sized destination," Abe continues. "There's one main club, Temno, where most blood whore activity takes place. In terms of visitation and revenue, it's about a third of the size of the Nightingale in Leningrad."

Nodding, his father finishes his tea. "Anything on notable families or residents?"

Abe shakes his head. "It's a commune. I didn't think anyone of significance would be living there."

"That's where you're wrong," his father says, reaching inside his suit jacket. He produces a photograph and hands it to him across the small space. "Every social circle has at least one or two ringleaders who know all the key players. In Baia, it's this woman."

She stares back at Abe with the typically Soviet blank look that he's seen in other photos, but something about her eyes makes him shiver. On the back is Cyrillic lettering in unfamiliar handwriting.

"Yeva Nikolaevna Belikova," his father explains. "She has two sons and three daughters. The youngest of the five, Olena, lives with her. She's…" He takes the photo back from Abe and pockets it without looking at it. "I would say she's somewhere between a Seer and a witch."

"Dhampirs can't do magic," Abe says, brows furrowed.

"She does tarot readings for the locals and others in the area who travel to her."

"So not real magic, then."

His father grins. "No, Ibba, not 'real' magic. Regardless, she's well-respected in the community, and if we're to buy Temno one day, it's in our best interest to have her friendship. "

Silence falls after that, and Abe hands back the photograph with a strange amount of relief before returning to his book, the photographed eyes of Yeva Belikova haunting him all the way to Omsk.

——

"How long have you known this woman?" Abe asks as they drive through the small town of Baia, his father's guardians in the backseat.

"A little less than two years. Here." His father hands him a map. "Direct me to the circled spot."

"I don't know Russian."

"I invite you to reconsider your responses to me, Ibrahim."

"Pardon. You need to turn… left at the next street."

"Correct." His father smiles at him, something almost proud. "Your  _anne_  did not believe that you could do this, but me? A father knows his son, absolutely. Tell her that when we're home next week."

Too distracted by trying to recognize street signs, Abe only replies with, "I will. Turn right."

"To finish answering your question, I have known her since my first visit two summers ago and I have visited her half a dozen times now."

"Has she done any of her readings for you?"

"Every time." His father grins. "She has never gotten one right."

They pull up to the house and Abe is struck by how normal it appears. Two stories with a stone pathway between the dirt road and front door. A fading row of painted flowers wraps around the bottom of the house, like every other on the street. Icicles still hang from the edges of the roof, a direct contrast to the seemingly endless stream of excitement from the locals over summer's inevitability due to the warming weather.

A small girl, no older than four, answers the door, and stares up at the pair of them with wide eyes. She shouts something into the house that Abe doesn't understand, and then suddenly the woman from the photograph appears, shooing the little girl away and nodding towards Abe's father.

"You must be Ibrahim," she says in English to Abe, sizing him up.

He doesn't let his gaze waver, focusing on an invisible line just above her eyebrows like his father taught him, and nods in greeting.

"Your son is mute, Omar," she says with a frown to his father as she waves them in. "Come, I only have so much time."

She deposits them in the kitchen for a moment and comes back with a thick stack of cards in her hand. Abe does his best to catalog his surroundings, knowing his father will quiz him later, but it all flies out of his head when Yeva points to him.

"You. Have you had a tarot reading before?"

"No." He struggles to keep from sounding like he's questioning her. And then, rather lamely, he adds, "I'm Muslim."

"And also a Moroi who wields earth magic," she points out, shuffling the cards with the precision of years of practice. He's unsure what to say to that, but thankfully, she supplies him with a task. "Cut."

His eyebrows crease downward.

"Create three stacks from this one," she explains, borderline irritated.

Both cautious of what he's getting himself into and hesitant to do something wrong with his father watching, he slowly does as instructed. Yeva recombines the cards and then flips over three cards in front of him. Before she can say anything, an unnaturally tall Moroi man enters the kitchen.

"Where's Olena?" he asks Yeva, who looks mightily unimpressed at being interrupted.

"In the backyard," she says. "While you are there, get her to explain to you that I am to be left alone when clients are present."

The guy rolls his eyes but disappears without a word.

"Ivashkov is still here?" Omar asks, nearly bored, and Abe does a double take. Royals are always given respect; his father sounds like he's inquiring on the status of a spider taken up residence in the bathroom.

Yeva's face is still twisted with disgust. "Olena has never made the best decisions. It is why I live with her. Anyway, back to this." She appraises the cards for a few moments and then glances at Abe. "How old are you?"

"I will be twenty next month."

"As I suspected." She points to the first card. "This is the Wheel of Fortune. It tells me that you are at a turning point in your life. It is a positive turning point, and you should expect things to begin to come together in the near future. This—" She points to the second card, "Is the Hermit. It signals introspection and the need for looking inward. Together with the Wheel of Fortune, it means that you will come to some decisions as you approach this turning point and that you must think long and careful about these decisions before making them."

Abe looks to his father, suppressing the urge to get up and walk out. The reading is so vague, it's almost ridiculous. Almost.

Yeva points to the third and final card. "This card is the World, which signifies completion of some kind of journey, but…"

Something in her hesitation catches Abe's attention. "But?" he prompts when she falls silent.

"It is inverted."

"What does that mean?"

"A card that has been inverted has a corrupted meaning. In this case, it means your journey has yet to be completed."

 _What utter horseshit,_  Abe thinks, embarrassed for thinking the old woman might have actually had something insightful to say.

"What I did today was a three card spread," Yeva continues, seemingly unaware of Abe's desire to slide through the floor and out of the conversation. "It is a basic reading that allows me to see your past, present, and future. With the Wheel of Fortune in your past and the Hermit in your present, I can see that you have spent your life working towards a goal that is nearing fruition. Tell me, would this have anything to do with your father preparing you to join him in his business dealings?"

Next to him, his father stiffens. Abe looks between him and Yeva, bewildered. "Yes," he says slowly, curious about his father's reaction. "My mother would say he's been doing that since I was a small child."

Yeva nods. "The inverted World is in your future, which tells me your journey in joining your father will be muddled. The Hermit advises you to decide carefully, but the World says you won't heed that advice as much as you should, leading to unrest and unhappiness. Your life will be successful, but something will be missing, something that will keep you from being entirely happy." Those assessing eyes are boring into him, and he's acutely aware of feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass. "Much in your life will need contemplation, so do not rush any major decisions or there will be regret."

He swallows. It's a lot to take in. All of his earlier skepticism is gone and has been replaced with an overwhelming need for air. "Where is—"

"Toilet is down the hall and to the left," Yeva finishes, and that of all things has Abe falling out of his seat in his desperation to leave the kitchen.

Inside the bathroom, Abe splashes his face with water and then stares at himself in the mirror, chin dripping.

He's being ridiculous. All Yeva did was make a bunch of grand overgeneralizations that could've easily applied to his or anyone else's life. That was it. There was nothing that could have told her what the future holds for him.

And yet, something about the way she looked at him like she'd been digging around in his soul set him on edge.  _Much in your life will need contemplation, so do not rush any major decisions or there will be regret._  What if there was something there?

The door bangs open, shocking Abe out of his stupor, and suddenly he's facing a young woman holding a whimpering small boy.

"Sorry," she says, accent thick, as she makes to leave. "I will use sink upstairs."

"No, this is your home." He steps aside to let her squeeze past him in the tiny bathroom. She deposits the boy on the toilet and turns on the faucet while reaching for a small towel. A puzzle piece falls in place. "You're Olena, correct?"

She shoots him a curious look. "Yes….and you are?"

"Ibrahim Mazur."

Immediately, she tenses up. "Son of Omar Mazur?"

"I'm more than my father's son."

The remark sails right over her. "I have heard he has dealings with the Moroi men who visit."

"Among other things," Abe agrees.  _Never directly answer a question_  had been one of his father's oft-repeated lessons while growing up.

"Does this make you dangerous, too?" Olena asks, not looking at Abe as she cleans a scrape on the boy's knee.

What an opening. If asked, his father attributes a lot of his success to people living in fear of him; as a kid, Abe had wondered what kind of reputation he would wind up building for himself. Now, watching Olena work, he realizes this is his first chance to try on his father's persona for size, but she speaks before he can get the words out.

"You must not be if it takes you this long to answer," she replies a bit cheekily, but her smile falls when she glances at him.

"I don't know," he says, puffing up his chest as he scrambles for a recovery. "Haven't had the chance to find out."

She pauses, her eyes glossing over him — tailored button-down, pressed pants, the Rolex gifted to him from his mother during last year's Ramadan — and something flickers across her face. "You look like a Moroi who could punch someone if you wanted to."

The boy asks something of Olena, and she lovingly chides him back before resuming her work. Putting his hands in his pockets, Abe asks, "Yeva — your mother — her tarot readings are highly regarded around here, correct?"

"Very much so." Olena grabs a jar of salve off the shelf above the toilet and unscrews it like she's done it a million times before. "On my sixteenth birthday, she saw I would meet a foreigner who would change my life for the better. A month later, I met Randall. You saw him when he arrived earlier."

Randall Ivashkov. The full name feels important to Abe, so he files it away for later.

The boy whimpers when she rubs the salve on his knee, and she shushes him as she finishes up her work. "Thank you, Dimka," she says when she puts the jar back on the shelf and sets him on the ground, watching him run back outside like he was never hurt. She turns to Abe. "Will you be coming back to Baia with your father in the future?"

"I have no idea," Abe admits. "I don't travel with him often."

She hums as she turns over his answer. "Well, if I never see you again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Ibrahim Mazur. Maybe next time you will be as scary as your father." And then with a conspiratorial wink, she leaves Abe in the bathroom feeling like something in the world just shifted.

* * *

**OCTOBER 2013**

The Belikov house is an utter disaster, which might be putting it mildly.

"Old man," Rose says happily, stopping in the foyer to give him a one-armed hug, Sonya's daughter Katya on her opposite hip. "Welcome to the madhouse."

"How long has it looked like this?" he asks, picking his way around abandoned toys and half-filled boxes as he follows Rose inside.

"Only a week," she replies defensively, dropping Katya in one of the chairs in the kitchen and letting Karolina take over getting the child an afternoon snack. "Once the wedding's over and Dimitri finishes packing up his childhood, things will be back to normal."

"Mama can't wait to have her house back," Karolina adds with a shake of her head, "But she insists they get married here, so…"

Collecting sheets of paper formerly strewn all over the table, Rose rolls her eyes. "Mark and Oksana were perfectly happy surrendering their house to us for the weekend, but no, Olena wouldn't listen to me, so she has no right complaining about the state of affairs around here."

"Sounds like her," Abe says, relief shooting through him when Rose laughs.

"She's outside," Karolina adds, handing Rose a paper that fell to the floor near her feet.

Abe nods his thanks and leaves, ignoring the look Karolina shoots at him. In the backyard, Olena's surveying the set-up for the coming weekend, arms crossed over her chest.

"You're early," she says when he joins her. They're standing in the middle of what looks like a web of cut up tree logs; beneath their feet is where a bonfire will be built, per Rose's wishes — due to the rapidly approaching winter and lack of available indoor space, she'd insisted, and not at all because of the secret fascination with pyrotechnics Abe suspects she has. At the top of the circle is an opening, which Abe presumes to be his daughter's idea of an altar.

"I'm just the father of the bride, checking in on everyone's progress," he says, sliding his fingers in his pockets.

"And how are we doing?" Olena asks, still eyeing the arrangement.

"Rose hasn't burned down the house yet so I'd say everything is running smoothly."

The corner of Olena's mouth lifts up slightly and then evens out again. "Janine will be here tomorrow, yes? With Sydney and the Ivashkov boy."

"Adrian."

"Yes, him."

"I'm meeting them tomorrow at two for lunch after their train gets in."

She glances at the house and then turns to face him. "Have you met him?"

"He's not Randall, Olena," he says, regretting saying the name aloud when she tenses.

"I've heard he drinks."

"Not anymore."

Worry creases her eyes. "Does he…" She sucks in a breath, looking over Abe's shoulder. "Do they know about…"

"Everyone knows." He presses his lips together tight for a moment. "Rose said Adrian doesn't know his uncle well and that he's hoping we don't treat him any differently for it."

"It's not my behavior I worry about," she says, and then the back door opens and Zoya calls out that Olena's needed in the kitchen and Abe melts away into the streets for the rest of the day to ponder her words.

—

He'd been raised Muslim, and while nothing about him screams  _devout follower_ , certain habits have stuck over the years, which means he's pretty much the only one sober come the afternoon of his daughter's wedding. Leaning against the house, glass of tea in hand as he watches over the festivities unfold, he begins to suspect that even the children were given one too many a bottle of  _kvas_.

The working side of him delights in the idea that he's surrounded by intoxicated people because it makes getting information out of them so much easier, but he tries to shut the voice out. His daughter just got married. He needs to enjoy himself. He doesn't know if it'll happen again.

A Scottish accent he'd recognize a mile away pulls him out of his thoughts. "She's pretty."

Janine's sidled up next to him, and while she isn't holding a cup in her hand, he can tell she's had a drink or two. It doesn't take a whole lot for her to feel tipsy, a fact he knows well.

He follows her gaze to where Rose, Viktoria, and Sydney are gathered in an animated, drunken conversation. He knows Janine well enough to guess what she's hinting at.

"I think so, too. Rose was worried white wouldn't look good on her, but I kept telling her that with my—"

"You're hysterical, Ibrahim."

"I know."

Janine snorts in amusement and shifts her weight. "I didn't see it at first, but then they were sitting next to each other at dinner last night, and…I dunno. It was a bunch of little things." She pauses, shifting her weight again. "She has your eyes."

"I know." This time, it's softer.

"I guess I should be mad."

He looks down at her. She's still staring at the three young women across the backyard. "Are you?"

"Do I get that luxury?" she volleys back.

He has no answer.

"Did you regret it?" she asks after a moment.

"You broke my heart," he chokes out.

"And you don't play the victim well," she says, an edge of bitterness to her voice.

He exhales. "I fought for you, if you recall."

"You did." She nods. "That's why I'm not mad. I guess…"

"You guess what?"

"I guess I understand it a little bit." Her head is tilted towards him, and if he had to guess, he'd say she was scanning for Olena. "You knew her before me."

"You were the most intense thing to happen to me," he counters.

She allows a small smile to stretch across her face, the tiniest bit reminiscent. "And I loved you just as deeply." She glances up at him, the smile stretching a little wider before fading altogether. "I wish we'd had more time together."

 _I do, too_  he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

Across the yard, Dimitri comes up behind Rose and hugs her, planting a kiss on her cheek that Viktoria pretends to be disgusted over while Sydney laughs.

"I'm glad she has someone," Janine says. "We all need someone," she adds, before pushing off the wall and disappearing inside the house.

* * *

In December, he watches the news report of the Kremlin raising the tricolors with the foolish hope that everything will be better come the new year.

It in't. A deal gone sour puts his father in the wrong car at the wrong time and then his mother's guardian, nursing a recently broken elbow, isn't enough to fend off an eager newborn on her walk home from a friend's house one night.

At twenty-five, he's left with a full bank account, an almost empty family tree, and the sense that maybe Yeva Belikova is a woman to whom he should listen.

**DECEMBER 1992**

He's outside the  _apteka_ , coordinating with Igor and Pavel the rest of the day's schedule when the old woman sees him.

"I warned you, did I not?" Yeva asks as she drags him down the street by his jacket sleeve, jerking him forward when he momentarily loses his balance.

"What on Earth could you possibly be talking about?" Abe asks under his breath, yanking his arm back into his possession.

In a stroke of terrible luck, Yeva's not in a giving mood. "You are going to fix this by any means necessary."

"Only if you start explaining yourself."

"If you think these explanations begin with me, you need your head examined."

"If I—If I need my head…checked, you—"

She stops and spins him around to face her, oblivious to his jog-induced panting. "End that sentence,  _pozhaluysta_ ," Yeva snaps with a twitch of her jaw. "Only  _zadrot_ would be without his senses and come back so soon."

"Yeva Nikolaevna, I do not know what you're talking about," Abe grits out, still struggling to gain control of his breathing.

Something in his tone finally gets her attention. Her mouth thins out and she beckons him down to her height with one finger. "You are invited to dinner tonight. See you at eight."

——

"So this is it?" Pavel asks when the car pulls up outside the Belikova house.

Abe goes perfectly still as the urge to tense his shoulders passes through him. Then, after blinking away the sadness, he flashes a humorless smile at his two guardians. "I'll only be a couple of hours. You," he says, pointing to Pavel before gesturing towards Igor, "Listen to this one. He'll know when it's time to come get me." He reaches into his suit jacket pocket, pulls out several large bills, tightly rolls them up, and passes them over to Igor. "You were with me the whole time. Our new Queen can go fuck herself with those new coverage laws of hers."

Inside the house, it's Chaos defined, and Abe muses to himself about how much worse it'd be if Olena had chosen to bend to her children's wishes for a dog as a New Year's present this year. As it stands, Sonya's got the television turned up somewhere between Shouting and Blaring; Yeva is standing in the hall, voice raised as she berates someone over the phone; and the sounds of Olena yelling over top of her two older children make their way from the kitchen to Abe's ears. He can't help himself; a small smile scrawls itself in one corner of his mouth.

Yeva catches sight of him and points to the kitchen. The smile falls off his face.

He glides down the hall towards the kitchen and sets up shop against the doorway. The older girl, Karolina, and the boy, Dimitri, are lined up in front of the table with cowed expressions. Olena's knee-deep in a speech about listening to adults and not running in the kitchen when her attention momentarily flicks over to Abe. She breaks character instantly, an excited, almost nervous grin splashing across her face before she remembers the two in front of her, who've started whispering and giggling amongst themselves.

"We'll finish this later when your grandmother is free to talk," Olena reprimands the pair sharply, effectively quieting them back down. After a moment, she waves them off with a forceful  _uyditye_.

The usual large pot is on the stove, broth gurgling away under the lid. The scent of bread in the oven is soft, almost dainty, and the  _samovar_  on the table only adds to the room's warmth. Olena sinks into a chair, creaky bones made of cracking plastic, and she sighs quietly once she's settled.

He doesn't move from the doorway. She focuses in on him after a few moments and gives him a tired, unreadable smile.

"This is an unusual time of year for you," she starts, resting her arm atop the chair's back and propping her head up with her fist. Her other arm braces against the table, elbow locked.

"It is," he agrees.

She simply continues assessing him.

"My…" He sucks in a breath. "My mother died. Strigoi attack." He takes a motionless step forward and stares out the window over the sink, hands in his pockets.

"And your guardians…"

"Outside in the car, even though I told them to leave."

Her brow furrows. "So you are not at all concerned with—"

"Alonya, you're my only family left."

She jumps up, chair clattering on all four legs like a fresh-faced foal, and turns to the stove as if remembering her original task.

"How is Janine?"

"Still not returning my phone calls."

Olena snorts, stirring what Abe guesses is either a soup or a stew. "That sounds like Zhanna."

"She at least listens to the voicemails I leave. " He crosses the room in two quick strides to help when she reaches for a stack of bowls.

She waves him off. "Women never change. We are very good at pretending to growing up and becoming responsible, but—" She shakes her head as she grabs a handful of spoons out of a drawer. "If a woman breaks your heart once, she will never stop if you let her."

"Maybe that's what some of us deserve," he murmurs.

She stops in front of the table, bowls and spoons clutched tight to her front. A beat fills the room and strips away the air between them. Slowly, the bowls find their way to the table. The spoons follow a few moments later.

"I—"

"Stop." Her fingers clench around the chair back in front of her. Turning towards him, she comes to a stop at arm's length and then takes a meek half-step in his direction. "Your mother died, not you. Don't do that to yourself."

All he can do is nod. Her smile says she doesn't believe he'll take her words to heart, so he croaks out, "I won't."

With a hum and a nod, she moves back to the stove with the affect of someone having just discussed the weather. "Can you tell my mother to collect the little ones?" she asks casually enough that Abe nearly falls over. His chest is a little tight and his hands are shaking, but everything's very much normal, right?

He relays the message to Yeva, who replies with the directive to stay after dinner so she can give him a reading, and then he slips outside for a momentary breath of fresh air.

——

"So I forgot flowers—" Abe begins when Olena returns to the kitchen after finally coaxing Sonya to sleep.

Olena makes a face and shrugs her shoulders. "If Mama said nothing, do not worry about it."

"Nonsense." He leans back in his chair, pulling out a flask. "I always come with something."

With a coy smile, she approaches him from the other side of the table and leans down on her elbows. Her eyes promise secrets. She doesn't look away as she reaches out and takes the flask with a whisper of her thumb against the back of his hand. His body alights at the touch and his breath catches when she straightens up and takes a blind swig.

He feels her satisfied hum deep in his chest. He's frozen with possibility. If someone came along and tapped him on the shoulder, he'd burst into flames. She takes another tiny sip before securing it shut.

"Whiskey?" she asks, ducking to store the flask in the back of a cupboard next to the sink.

"Bourbon," he replies with a grin.

"I suppose that will be available in the coming years," she remarks. "A lot has already arrived."

An eyebrow quirks up. "Most people say thank you when they receive a gift."

"They do." The secrets in her eyes lean forward, and she bites the inside of her cheek as if to keep them contained. "Give me two minutes. Upstairs, second door on the left."

He counts to one hundred and ten and then follows her.

He's never ascended past the entry level, preferring to stick to going where Yeva tells him to. His footsteps feel too loud. His breath sounds too big. He stops outside the instructed door to debate knocking versus letting himself in. Just as he's raising his hand, Olena opens the door and ushers him in. She's already changed for the night, but her hair is still pinned up, and she sits down at a small vanity and wipes at her face with a cotton ball.

"Sit," she instructs him with a knowing half-smile. "Relax."

He looks around. It's either the floor or the—

"Yes, on the bed." She laughs softly, no malice intended. "Sit. You look tired."

"I  _feel_  tired," he admits, allowing himself a brief moment to fall apart. He runs a hand down his face and along his days-old stubble.

"When did she die?" Olena asks. Confused, he looks over his shoulder at her reflection. "Your mother," she clarifies.

"Oh. About…" A sigh turns into a yawn. "Almost two weeks ago."

"How was the funeral?"

Her voice is softly probing, tucking itself inside his heart. Sharing with her is stilted and awkward and the most freeing thing in the world.

"Big. Expensive. She was one of seven."

Olena winces, cotton ball paused on the bridge of her nose. "You must have a lot of cousins."

"Yeah." He lets out a tired chuckle. "A lot."

Silence falls as she finishes wiping down her face, dropping the used cotton balls in a wastebasket under the vanity.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything," he says.

"Is Janine really not going to let you see your daughter?"

His eyes track her every breath as she leaves the vanity and slips under the blankets behind him. He braces himself and then turns to face Olena directly, hitching a knee up to rest on the edge of the bed. "I'm planning for the worst at this point so… yes, it's looking that way."

She's half-sitting up, slumped against her pillows with the blankets bunched around her waist. Her expression says she's decoding him as they speak. He's suddenly dying to know what she's keeping from him.

"What if you…" And then suddenly she's gaping, her voice voluntarily shutting off as the words grow too big for her throat. She shakes her head and puts her hand to her forehead, avoiding his gaze for a moment.

"What if I…?" He prompts, concern lacing his words.

"Give me your hand."

He does. She gives him a look like she's wondering about him just as much as he is about her. "You are sitting at the other end of the bed. Come closer."

He does, again. Her hands are slightly warmer than usual and her pulse is racing under his fingers. Tentatively, she brings his hand to her lower abdomen. It's slightly hardened and he can almost imagine a curvature if he focuses. His fingers twitch at the thought, and she threads her own through his. His heart is in his feet. It takes an amount of strength surprising to himself just to meet her wide eyes.

"That time…" She pauses to swallow. Her accent is thicker than anything he's heard in a long time. "When you visited couple of months ago…"

He closes in, pulling her in to meet him halfway, and buries his face in her hair. She smells like witch hazel and soap, and he takes a moment to commit it to memory.

His voice is muffled when he asks, "Is this why your mother ambushed me at the pharmacy earlier today?"

She laughs, gripping his arm tighter. "Probably." Then, with a sigh, she lets go of his arm and burrows down under the blankets, holding them up in offering. "Join me?"

He makes a split second decision, only because he knows that any hesitation on his part will send her reeling and this is too delicate a situation to prioritize his desires over hers. He stands and slides his suit jacket off, carefully laying it atop the trunk at the foot of her bed. With a quick roll-up of his shirt sleeves, he joins her, hating himself for wondering if this is the side of the bed Randall sleeps on when he visits.

"Is this okay?" she asks cautiously, hands fluttering around her abdomen —  _the baby_  — and his brain short-circuits.

"Yeah, I—" He shakes his head, shifting closer to pull her into his arms so she can't see his face. " _Mashallah_ , Olena, worry not. If this wasn't a good thing, I would tell you."

She pulls back to look at him, and he rushes to school the anxiety in his expression. "You would?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Absolutely," he replies, brushing his lips across his forehead. Her shoulders relax in his arms as she stifles a yawn, and it suddenly feels like they've swapped positions in the last ten minutes. "Who else knows?"

"My mother. A couple friends. My midwife."

"Not Randall?"

She stiffens imperceptibly. "No, not Randall. The last time he visited, it was around my birthday in the spring."

"He's going to return sooner or later."

"Stop ruining this."

He quietens, his thumb stroking the space between her shoulder blades. "Forgive me."

"I will deal with Randall." She buries her face deeper in his chest. "You have enough to worry about."

Soft laughter. "That's certainly true." When she stifles another yawn, he gently hugs her closer. "You should sleep."

"Stop telling me what to do," she grumbles.

"Sleep, Olena. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good night, Abe."

He presses his lips to her hairline in response, waiting for her breath to slow and even out before slipping out of her arms, her room, the house, sliding into the car waiting out front, barely containing his shaking hands the entire time. It's only when Abe leaves Baia behind and starts the long drive back to Omsk that he finally lets out a very long, very tense sigh and allows himself to wonder the extent of the mess he's gotten himself into.


End file.
